Passing on, they soon reached a hall whose walls were lined with large pictures.  Here Mr. Sumner paused, saying:—­

“We find in this room quite a number of paintings by Vittore Carpaccio.  Here is his most noted series, illustrating scenes in the legendary life of St. Ursula, the maiden princess of Brittany, who, with her eleven thousand companions, visited the holy shrines of the old world; and on their return all were martyred just outside the city of Cologne.  You have read the story, I know.  Look first at the general scheme of composition and color before going near enough to study details.  Carpaccio had felt the flood of Venetian color, and here we see the beginnings of that wonderful richness found in works by the later Venetian masters.  He was a born story-teller, and delighted especially in tales of a legendary, poetic character.  His works possess a peculiar fascinating quaintness.  The formal composition, by means of which we see several scenes crowded into one picture; the singular perspective effects; the figures with earnest faces beneath such heavy blond tresses, and with their too short bodies, enable us easily to recognize his pictures.”

“I think I shall choose St. Ursula to be my patron saint,” said Margery, thoughtfully, after they had turned from the purely artistic study of the pictures to their sentiment.  “I have read somewhere that she is the especial patroness of young girls, as well as of those who teach young girls,—­so she can rightfully belong to me, you see.”

“What do you think she will do for you?” asked Malcom, with a quizzical smile.

“Oh!  I don’t know.  Perhaps if I think enough about her life I shall be a better girl,” and the blue eyes grew very earnest.

“That is wholly unnecessary, Madge mia,” tenderly replied her brother.

“I will tell you a singular thing that I read not long ago,” said Bettina, going over to Margery, who was standing close in front of that sweet sleeping face of St. Ursula in one of the pictures.  “It was in the life of Mr. Ruskin.  His biographer says that Mr. Ruskin is wonderfully fond of the legend of St. Ursula; that he has often come from England to Venice just to look again on these pictures by old Carpaccio; that he has thought so much about her character that he really is influenced greatly by it.  And he goes on to say that some person who has perhaps received a calm, kind letter from Mr. Ruskin instead of the curt, brusque, or impatient one that he had looked for, on account of the irascible nature of the writer, would be altogether surprised could he know that the reason of the unexpected quietness was that Mr. Ruskin had stopped to ask himself, ’What would St. Ursula say?  What would St. Ursula do?’”

“I think that is a pretty story about Mr. Ruskin, don’t you?” she added, turning to Malcom and the others.

“It is a pretty enough story,” replied Malcom.  “But I confess I do not wish Madge always to stop and ask the mind of this leader of the ’eleven thousand virgins.’  Only consult your own dear self, my sister.  You are good enough as you are.”